I'm a transplanted Brit, living in Greece for the past quarter of a century.
Long of limb, broad of beam, open of mind and impatient of nature, I can sometimes wreak havoc without meaning to.
But I MEAN well....

Wednesday, 24 December 2014

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A-S_WhinXs8
'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the land
Not a civil servant was stirring, no offices manned;
The melomakarona* were laid on the
table with care,
In hopes that Kostakis soon would be there;

Little Alexi was nestled all snug in his bed,
Visions of election and power in his head;
Bills to be paid by New Year on the floor,
Light, heat, phone and taxes galore;

The children left their trigona** untouched,

Knowing their jingling won’t
gather much;

The days of profit from their
song are no more,

“Na ta poume?”*** most likely to meet a closed door.

Piles of rags in shop doorways
shuddered,
No home, no Christmas, they no longer mattered;
Shave-headed trolls were sleeping til Dawn,
With dreams of “Ellas über alles” and
burning crosses on lawns;

When out in the street there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon shone weakly through the wood-smoky air,
Giving a hazy view of what I saw there,
And what to my eyes appeared at the gates?
A bullet-proof Mercedes with ministerial plates.

The driver had glasses and he frowned as he muttered,
I thought for a moment it was Harry Potter.
But no, no magic, it was just Samaras,
Waving promises like a priest performing at Mass.

Beside him appeared a fat red-robed elf
Who started to take all our gifts from the shelf;
He had a broad face and a big round belly
That shook when he laughed – yes, it was Vangeli.

I watched as our visitors took gifts from the tree,
To hand over to Troika and cover their fee. Yiayia and Pappou**** slept on, I should mention,
Worn out from hours in queues for their pension.

With a wave of his hand and a wink of his eye,
Our guest took the coin from our New Year’s Pie.
Yet I knew in the morn he’d be pious in church,
Not giving a jot that we’re left in the lurch.

As I gathered my thoughts and prepared for the morrow,
I decided for one day to put aside sorrow.
So as we head towards Yuletide, I say with good cheer,
“Happy Christmas” to all, ....but to politicians “Ai sihtir!”*****

[Explanatory notes for non-Greek residents and others not in the know:

*Melomakarana are Greek honey traditionally served at Christmas

**Trigona – the musical triangles Greek kids use as a clattering
accompaniment to the traditional Christmas carol they sing from door-to-door on
Christmas and New Year’s Eves to collect for money (usually for their own
pockets, not charity).

***”Na ta poume?” Literally “Shall we sing it?” as a prelude to the
Christmas carol once the door has been opened.

****Yiagia and Pappou –
Grandma and Grandad

****“Ai sihtir!” is a curse used is Greek (though stolen from Turkish)
which roughly translates as “Sod off!”]

Friday, 19 December 2014

It sat there, calling
to her to unwrap it, then rewrap and feign delight on Christmas morning.

She’d
sworn she wouldn’t.

She’d also sworn she’d cook the family meal - but that was
before Mum took pity on her office party hangover.

The gift beckoned: ‘Just a little peek.’

She sipped her wine as
she flipped through the channels, smiling as she pictured her parents’ Christmas
Eve frenzy of activity.

The TV couldn’t distract
her from the perfectly wrapped present. She picked at the cellotape to reveal a
box. Inside - nothing. What?

Oh, a letter.

This year, we're giving you a special gift - your independence.

(Lily checked the
envelope for a cheque.)

We know you’ll open it before you should. So, you’ll know you have to
feed yourself on Christmas Day (there’s a turkey dinner in your freezer).

Lots of love – from Bali!

Mummy and Daddy.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

[Note:This story was written for the 6th SSFFS (Short Story & Flash Fiction Society) Project contest.For more about the SSFFS Project go to www.shortstoryflashfictionsociety.com or follow Facebook https://www.facebook.com/pages/Short-Stories-Flash-Fiction-Stories/692915047420207?fref=ts or Twitter @SSFFS_project]

Friday, 12 December 2014

Rain doesn’t
suit Athens. It’s all the concrete that’s the problem, I think.

At least when it rains in London, the green gets even greener (and there’s
probably more square metres of green space per capita in London than any other
city in Europe), and there’s nothing to beat the smell of Regent’s Park after a
shower. The thing is, London was built on the premise of its dampness. Just
like Stockholm, which is built on a collection of islands in the Baltic Sea,
it’s at peace with the liquid element, its natural habitat.

Athens’ natural habitat, however, is not damp. Its element comes from the
Attica Sky all right, but not in the form of raindrops, rather in the form of
heat from Apollo, the sun god.

So, when it rains in Athens, it is just not right. Everything looks soggy and
grey and uninspired. It's almost as if the city is sulking.

This week has been an especially damp one, starting with some spectacular
rainfall on Monday as I was making my way across the city to the office after a
couple of weeks off. In the hour it took me to make my way by public transport
from Holargos to Piraeus, I reckon it dumped the equivalent of the Aegean Sea on the
city - the Attica Sky has been heavy with brooding, dark grey rain clouds. It
didn’t take long for new rivers to form in the roads, raging torrents that seeped through the seams of your boots and soaked you from the ground-up, in spite of
the brolly you’re gamely carrying.

Athens doesn't handle wet weather well – and nor do its residents. Just one
good drenching and the number of cars on the road quadruples, dusty pavements
become as slick as skating rinks, traffic grinds to a halt, public services
change pace from slow to stop and debris-filled drains explode with gay abandon
like geysers.

Athenians feel cheated when it rains.

Unlike northern
Europe, things are not designed for the rain here. Many homes have tile or
mosaic flooring – great in the hot summers, but chilly in the wet
autumn and winter months. Tumble driers are a rarity, and with more and more
people avoiding turning on their radiators due to the past few years of crisis and enforced penny-pinching,
there are times you think your washing will rot on the line long before it has
the chance to dry.

It was against that sad, grey background that I was making my way to the
office, when I suddenly spotted something that changed everything in an
instant. Standing in the Metro station was a middle-aged man chatting on his
phone – like thousands of other commuters that pass through every day. But in
his hand he held a simple bunch of bright yellow roses.

It was the kind of sight that makes you wish your eyelid was a camera shutter,
that you could capture that single fleeting image for all eternity.

That simple splash of yellow amid the rain-washed grey of Athens was the kind
of image that reminds you that even the most overcast of days holds the
potential for colour. It was a sight that… ...on the other hand, somebody
better stop me before I start to sound like a bad greetings card.

Thursday, 11 December 2014

Well, the nights have well and truly drawn in, the Christmas tree is up (and so far has not been attacked by Joker Da Kaat) and the festive season is well and truly upon us.I've been a little lax of late on the blogging front, due to giving myself some time out to celebrate my birthday (one of the biggies) in style back in Blighty, so I thought now might the time to revisit an old post about a rather delicious (hic!) Scandinavian treat that's sure to warm your cockles, and more, in the run-up to Santa's big night.

Meet Lars. You may not know his name, but I'm sure
you all know him.

He's the Swedish Chef, usually seen burbling incomprehensively (but
enthusiastically) around The Muppet Show kitchen, often with a chicken looking
on in horror.

I don't really know his name, but
after more than two decades years of working for a company with Swedish management, he is
definitely a Lars to me.And he has a very special specality: Glögg.

I first came across it as an innocent 28-year-old,
as I approached my first Christmas in my new job. Though based in Greece, many
of the managers were Swedes - and they were keen as mustard to bring a little
taste of the Baltic to the Eastern Mediterranean. I had already reluctantly
sampled reindeer (I know, I know - but actually Rudolph and his ilk are
surprisingly tasty) and had managed to avoid Rotten Herring (don't
ask - it IS what it sounds like), but the smells coming from the lunchroom
that December morning were infinitely more enticing.

Curiosity got the better of me and I was soon to
found hanging my head over a gently seething cauldron of ruby red liquor
bubbling with almonds, orange peel and sultanas, with my boss stirring away
merrily. It smelt orgasmic. (The booze, not my boss!).

Before I knew it, I had a little glass of the stuff
in my hand and was taking my first tentative sip. Then a bolder slurp. Then
another glass or two - or four.

I don't remember much after that... except a mental
note that this Yuletide concoction was lethal enough to fell a whole longship
of Vikings. And that I got the bus home that evening. I think.

So, if you're feeling bold, here is a recipe,
including the extras my boss liked to throw into the mix. It will certainly
keep the cold at bay - but you may not feel your nose after a glass or two.

What to do:- Put the spices and water in a small pan and bring to the boil. Then turn
off heat and let it stand overnight
- Pass the mixture through a sieve to filter out the 'bits' from the spices - Pour in the wine and gently heat (don't boil!)
- Add sugar to taste (about half a cup) and stir til it dissolves
- Heat but do not bring it to the boil. Alcohol evaporates when boiled and that
sort of defeats the object!- If you're feeling naughty, spike the whole thing
with a splash or three of vodka or brandy
- Serve hot with raisins and blanched almonds (dropped into the cups after
serving).

Friday, 14 November 2014

A fox
barks, and a distant owl hoots somewhere across the playing fields. I peek out
from my shelter among the roots and watch as darkness rapidly covers what’s
left of the dull, damp day like a shroud spread over a dearly departed. The
glare of a street light pokes jagged fingers through the branches above me as I
wait for dusk to give way to night.

Out
there, humans are returning to their homes. Closing heavy curtains against the unknown
night. Enfolding them in the comfort of their own homes, where they’ll grab a few hours with their loved ones – and maybe a take-away as they watch a TV
movie – before seeking solace in the safety of their beds. At least, that’s where
they think they’re safe.

There’s
no home our kind hasn’t visited. No sleep we haven’t shattered with a spasm of
fear and panic. No locked doors or barred windows that can keep us away.

Ironic
really that they’ve started hanging up ineffective spiders’ webs of wool and trinkets bearing
our own name to keep us away.

Little do they know that we’re not the ones who
conceive and give birth to the night terrors that haunt them – they manage that just fine all on their
own in the depths of their buried hopes and fears.

We just
gather them, take sustenance from them, and use them to build our dark subterranean
kingdoms.

We are
the Dreamcatchers.

[Note:This story was written for the 5th SSFFS (Short Story & Flash Fiction Society) Project contest - and it won!For more about the SSFFS Project go to http://shortstoryflashficitonsociety.com/ or follow Facebook https://www.facebook.com/pages/Short-Stories-Flash-Fiction-Stories/692915047420207?fref=ts or Twitter @SSFFS_project]

Saturday, 8 November 2014

Jacob
heaved his sailor’s sack onto his shoulder as the ‘Wind Rider’ bumped into her berth. He sniffed, unused to the singed
caramel tinge to the smoggy air from the nearby Tate & Lyle sugar works at
Silvertown.

Stevedores’ shouts cut through the damp evening and light drizzle shimmered
the cobbles. Ahead, the refinery’s twin chimneys rose up behind the dockface of
warehouses, cranes and bustle – a dark terrestial reminder that he was leaving
his old life behind.

A small
black paw gently batted his sea-roughened cheek. It came from a cat perched
parrot-like on the old salt’s other shoulder, nestling in the bush of hair that
hadn’t seen a barber for nigh on forty years.

Nodding farewells
to the deckhands, he walked down the gangplank and left a lifetime afloat behind
him. It was time to reacquaint himself with the London land he had left as a
boy.

The tavern
had no draw on him, buoyed as he was against the cold by the tot of
rum in his last mug of ship’s tea. A faded beauty threw a weary “Fancy a good time, darlin’?” in his
direction, but he just trudged on. He’d had every kind of portside whore the
world could offer, and had probably fathered more street urchins that he’d had
hot dinners.

He stopped
at a fishmonger’s stall. Shaitan purred into the sailor’s beard at the smell
of poor man’s fish. Jacob pulled out a few coins for a pint of winkles and couple
of pieces of the jellied eel.

Two streets
down, he reached a door unopened for many a year and pulled a key on a grimy string
from around his neck. It slotted into the lock, and turned rustily to open to a
small room, piled high with the cluttered order of poverty. An
embroidered tablecloth beneath the dust of neglect revealed the woman’s touch that
had once held sway. But no more. Sarah was gone. Taken away by the diphtheria whilst
her brother was sailing the world.

Shaitan
leapt to the ground, sniffing at her new surroundings. Jacob dropped his sack,
took a saucer from the shelf above the sink in the corner and placed on it a
piece of gelatinous fish. He put in on the floor and settled into a tired red
armchair, taking a long pin from his pocket to ease the winkles out of their shells.

Empty
shells rustled as he fell into a deep sleep, dreaming of the sea. The mistress –
sometimes harsh – that he had served, man and boy, and who he had now left
behind.

A sudden
weight on his chest jolted him awake. Luminous eyes stared into his watery blue
ones. Claws, ever-so slightly extended, experimentally dabbed his lips, and a
pink tongue voiced a demand for more food.

Wednesday, 5 November 2014

As I hurtle through
the past few weeks of my 40s, it occurs to me that I’m supposed to have grown
up and found myself by now.

In some ways, I have –
I’m in a settled, long-term relationship, I’ve raised my contribution to the
next generation, I’ve achieved a few things in my career, I’ve made some
fabulous friends, and I’m probably more comfortable in my own skin than I ever was.

In other ways… not at
all! As I've got older, I've become more of a rebel now than I ever was growing up in provincial middle
class England (at this rate, I’ll have a half-shaved head and green eyebrows by
the time I hit 70).

Anyway, just for the
sheer hell of it, I decided to draw up some lists to remind myself of 50 of the
things that have got me this far (and a few of those that I still want to tick
off before surrendering to middle age,
the menopause, or whatever else is lurking around the corner).

Things I’m glad I’ve
become before I slamming into my 50s:

1)A redhead

2)Bilingual

3)A Humanist

4)More open-minded

5)Fit(ter than I was)

6)Owl-obsessive

7)An unapologetic man-loving feminist

Things I reckon I’ve
always been:

8)Loud

9)Clumsy

10)Passionate

11)Opinionated

12)Unexpectedly introvert

13)In a hurry

14)An unashamed idealist

15)The butt of people’s jokes

16)Slightly nerdy

Things that make my
life better:

17)Tea

18)Friends

19)Loud music

20)Laughter

21)Books

22)The Internet

23)Cheese

24)Eyeliner

25)The Mr

26)The ManChild

27)Red lipstick

28)Red wine

29)A mother who’s also a great friend
and inspiration

Things I’ve never
regretted:

30)Speaking my mind

31)Believing most people are
fundamentally good, kind and decent.

32)Falling in love, head first.

33)Every book I’ve ever read - even the bad ones, the ones that make me say "If this crap can get published, why the hell can't I?".

34)Marrying my best friend.

35)Moving to Greece and making my life
here.

36)Becoming a mother…. once.

Quotes

37)“Say what you mean, and mean what
you say.” – me.

38)“The cure for boredom is curiosity.
There is no cure for curiosity.” – Dorothy Parker.

39)“I love deadlines. I love the
whooshing sound they make as they fly past.” – Douglas Adams.

40)“I can resist anything but
temptation.” – Oscar Wilde.

41)“Be the change you want to see in
the world.” – Mahatma Gandhi

42)“Laughter is an enema for the soul.”
– Robin Williams

Things I promise to
keep doing:

43)Being me

44)Loving life

45)Exercising regularly

46)Seeking out interesting people –
even if I have little or nothing in common with them

Friday, 31 October 2014

She
breathed a sigh of exhausted relief as she laid her baby girl gently in the
cot. Big blue eyes blinked sleepily up at her, then closed as the child finally
surrendered to the deep rhythms of sleep. Georgia fingered the gaudy blue bead
at her throat and said a prayer to the god she didn’t believe it that her
daughter would never know humiliation she had growing up.

The
necklace had been a gift from her superstitious Greek grandmother, Yiayia Gogo,
on her 12th birthday. It was, she had said, to protect her from the
evil eye but also carried a special charm that would protect others too.

“I know you think is all Greek stupidity, my
darling,” she had
said. “But I KNOW. You have your aunt
Voula’s eyes – powerful eyes – and there lies the danger.”

Georgia had
laughed as she thought of her sweet great aunt in the Gogo’s home village
halfway up a Greek mountain. Her benevolent gaze through watery, saucer-like
blue eyes looked anything but powerful or dangerous to her.

“Go on, you laugh,” her grandmother had said. “But even if you don’t believe, wear it always – please – as a favour
to your Yiayia.”

So she had
promised.

Every day,
she wore the pea-sized stone the colour of a blue Lego brick, with a creepy eyeball
crudely painted on it. Even when the mean girls at school who never missed the
chance to mock her for her weight, her lack of grace, her love of books and
lack of boyfriends spotted the bauble. Then one day, in a fit of teen
rebellion, she slipped it off and hid it at the bottom of her pencil case.

Lucy and her
gang of long limbed, expensively groomed thugs were waiting for her at the
school gates that afternoon. Faster and stronger than her, it was nothing for
them to take her bag and empty the contents onto the muddy verge in a fit of
cackling glee, trampling her drawings underfoot. They found the necklace,
drawing it out of the pencil case like it was a piece of snot on a string and
screeching with laughter at its primitive gaze. Hot shame and anger flushed
Georgia’s cheeks and she felt a shock, like a bolt of unseen lightning, as she
glared at Lucy strutting along the side of the road pretending to model the eye
pendant like it was the crown jewels.

Something shifted
and cracked inside Georgia. A faint smell of singed hair tinged the air. Lucy
tripped and fell back – right into the path of a speeding lorry. A scream, the
screech of brakes, a sickening thud and a faint tinkle on the pavement as
Georgia’s necklace landed next to her. A slick stream of red trickled into the
gutter.

It was the
last time that Georgia had ever taken her necklace off.

She shook
herself away from her childhood memory, again burying the horror of what she
knew she had done – though everyone else insisted it was an awful freak
accident. It had been years since she’s allowed herself to think of that day. The
exhaustion that came with being a new mother must have let her defences down.

Tonight had
been particularly tough. Sam was working a double shift, and her mum refused to
come anywhere near the baby until she had shaken her latest bout of flu. So, of
course, the baby had screamed the house down for five solid hours. Nothing
Georgia did calmed her. Not hugs, not milk, not bouncing up and down or singing
every lullaby in the bilingual book. She felt like an utter failure as a mother
until suddenly, without warning, the scarlet-faced infant stopped her senseless,
wordless bawling and flopped like a rag doll against her mother’s shoulder.

Finally, a
chance to breathe, and to wipe the baby sick off her blouse. She
stripped to her bra in front of the bathroom mirror and wet a flannel to wipe
herself clean. A blob of semi-congealed milk was caught on her pendant,
clogging up the link connecting the bead to the chain. Carefully, she pulled it
over her matted hair and held it below the tap to rinse it clean.

A piercing
squeal rang out from the baby’s room. Despair
gripped Georgia. She dropped everything, curling in a ball, banging her head
repeatedly against the wall behind her and slapping her hands over her ears.
The ear-shattering cries continued.

“WHAT? What now?” screamed the young woman. “What the hell is wrong now? Can’t you PLEASE – for the love of God –
please just stop?”

A shock of
static snapped the air as she spied the blue bead
dangling over the edge of the bathroom sink. She scrambled to her feet,
reaching for the talisman, like a drowning woman clutching at a buoyancy aid. But
too late.

Today is All Hallows’ Eve, a day when
(according to Christian tradition which usurped the older Pagan festival of
Salmain) ghoulies and ghosties and all manners of evil supernatural beings come
out for a night of revelry before the holy All Saints’ Day.

All I know is that it's a great excuse for me to put my dark narrative hat on to tell you a story or two that might send a small shiver down your spine.

Here's one to get us started...

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Guilt trip

“Don’t encourage them,” he snapped at his teenage son who
was rummaged in his pocket for some change for the beggar outside the
Underground station. “You’re not helping,
just feeding his habit. Probably catch something just handing over my hard-earned
cash too.”

He eyed the
stinking bundle of rags with suspicion as he meticulously tapped a cigarette
out its packet, then looked away and lit it, forming a tent with his hands to
shelter the lighter’s flame from the guttering gusts of autumn wind. He closed
one eye against the sting of the smoke as the red glow caught and nibbled at
the filter paper.

Phil
grabbed his boy’s elbow and propelled him away, intent on putting as much
distance as possible between his only child and the street scum littering the
pavement. He changed the subject, driving home the importance of making a good
impression, making sure his son understood that he was expected to make a good
impression and not let the side down.

The fly
that settled on the back of his neck warranted no more of his attention that
the filthy beggar they left behind. It was just slapped away and forgotten, but
not before biting the tender, open-pored flesh just above his collar.

*******************

Later that
afternoon, father and son made their way across the Square. The boy’s head hung
low, despondent, as Phil jabbed at him with angry words berating him for
failing to win a place at the prestigious school he had set his sights on. John
bit back his words, knowing they would find no welcome, and stared at the
ground before him.

They never
saw the beggar, slumped like a deflated sentry at the station entrance,
watching the subterranean slowly swallow them as they rolled down the escalator
to the platforms. They never saw his minute nod across the concourse to a
grossly fat, red-cheeked woman in too-big carpet slippers secured with string,
pushing a trolley filled with plastic supermarket bags. Nor did they notice
when she whistled down the steps to a young, wasted man lolling against a
column.

A low
rumble and a gust of stale air heralded the arrival of the train. Phil pushed
his way into the carriage, sneering in disgust as he brushed against the
dead-eyed, unwashed youth that stepped aboard with his boy. His hand shot out
and grabbed John’s wrist as he saw him reaching for his pocket to hand over a
few coins for a sandwich or hot coffee. “I
told you before. Isn’t it about time you started to listening to me?” he
barked. John shrugged an apology to the parchment-skinned junkie and glared at
his father’s angry back, wondering where that black mark on the nape of his
neck had come from.

*******************

Three in
morning. Phil’s eyes snapped open in panic, frantically looking into the black
before him, trying to make sense of the nightmare images of endless brick-lined
tunnels that had shattered his sleep. He waited for his vision to adjust to the
darkness, but it remained impenetrable, oppressive. A solid weight sat on his
chest and he reached out to dislodge Jet, his wife’s black cat (or
witch’s familiar as he liked to call it). His hand met no warm dark fur with a
beating heart beneath – just a pool of icy cold darkness.

*******************

As he
stretched his jowls to shave the next morning, Phil’s eyes were drawn to a mark
on his neck, reaching dark fingers around from the back. After a momentary
flash of dread, he put all thoughts of malignant melanoma out of his mind,
splashed on some aftershave and fastened his collar and tie just a little bit tighter
than normal before heading out the door for his morning commute.

On the
train, he enjoyed more breathing space than usual, his fellow passengers giving
him a wide berth. Not that it bothered him – better not be rammed up
against the scroungers, losers and filthy foreigners scattered through the
wagon heaving with commuters. It didn’t occur to him that the black mark
reaching around to his larynx or his waxy ochre-tinged skin might have
something to do with it.

The train
lurched to a halt between stations. Suppressed groans of annoyance floated
above the passengers as they waited for it to start moving again. It didn’t.
Instead the lights blinked out plunging the carriage into darkness. The faint
glow of a dozen mobile phone screens bounced off the windows and penetrated the
gloom beyond. Grimyy bricks walls looked back at the commuters. Phil shuddered,
shrugging off vague memories of his nightmare and trying to harness his racing
pulse. His hand strayed to the back of his neck, nervously playing with the
place from where the stain was slowly but surely spreading. Unknown to him, a
new spot was rapidly forming on his left cheekbone.

The lights
flickered back on and the train creaked back into motion. Passengers exchanged
looks of annoyance and tutted at the ceiling. Phil drew a juddering breathe and
exhaled with a shaky wheeze, clutching at the upright pole for support. At the
next stop, the train spilled out its load of city wage-slaves, Phil among them.
He shifted his briefcase to his other hand and held tight onto the handrail of
the escalator heading upwards to ground level, emerging in the morning light
with a gasp to be greeted by a wide toothless grin from the beggar in his usual
spot at the entrance. He looked Phil in the eye, winked theatrically and raised
his dirt-engrained fingers to his temple in a mocking salute.

The working
day passed like any other. Sat in his cubicle, Phil worked methodically through
the pile of outgoing cases, correcting the mistakes of the inept and ingrates
he had to work with, never leaving his desk to make small-talk at the water
cooler or coo over some idiot’s latest batch of sickening baby photos. His coat
felt unusually heavy as he shrugged it on after dropping the last file into his
Out box and turning off the lights. His eyes burned and a cold sweat played on
his brow. Probably coming down with a fever from one of those low-lifes on the
train, he thought.

Stepping out into the evening drizzle, he took care not to
slip on the slick pavement, and made his way gingerly to the station. The rain
plastered his hair to his head, sending rivulets down his temples. He felt oh,
so tired. His vision swam and he grabbed the banister on the steps down the
station.

Gasping for
breath, he would have cheered if he had the strength. Coming his way, looking the
very picture of wholesome youth, was John, arm in arm with some copy/paste girl
from his crowd. He reached out a hand to appeal to his son for help, but the
boy looked straight through him, not recognising his own father beneath the
rapid decay his day had wrought. “Don’t
feel sorry for them,” he told the girl on his arm. “My dad’s right. It’s all a scam – he probably would have picked my
pocket if I’d let him get close enough.”

Defeated,
Phil made his painful way down the steps to the platform. It was packed full of
damp, steaming commuters. Seeking somewhere to rest, he inched to the end of
the platform and leant against the cracked tiles, waiting for the train. It
wasn’t due for another another 12 minutes. He let out a ragged sigh and closed
his weary eyes.

A wave of
unwashed body odour flowed past and a soft shushing noise roused him. He opened
his eyes to see the obese bag lady standing next to him in her ill-fitting
carpet slippers looking straight at him, smiling, and beckoning for him to
follow her. Once she was sure she had his attention, she turned and manoeuvred
her bulk past the little gate separating the platform from the tunnel beyond.
Phil watched in bemusement as she was swallowed by the darkness, then followed.

It was like
stepping into his dream. Brick walls, slimy with something unmentionable, and
an undefinable stench of something damp, cold, rancid but very much alive
washed over him. But he felt no dread.
He let the soft, sweet darkness engulf him as he realised that this was
where his life had been leading him all along.

Years of
blaming others, condemning outsiders, laying the faults of the world at the
feet of outcasts had paved his way in life.

I’m
hoping to add more little dark tales before midnight – both from my own pen and
from anyone who wants to add their voice around the cauldron. If you want to
join in the 'Around The Cauldron' fun, add a link to your story in the comments, or send me a message with your tale
and a couple of lines describing yourself, and I’ll add it as a guest post.

Saturday, 25 October 2014

Housework. One
of life’s great necessary evils, and one which – despite the fact that we think
we’re now enlightened and advanced – is still mostly laid firmly at the feet of
a person of the female persuasion.

That is not
good news for us slatterns.

No-one
likes housework. Some claim to, but they really mean is that they like the end
result, not the process. And if they still insist they enjoy scrubbing the
toilet bowl, picking out soapy clumps of hair clogging out of the plughole, or
wiping unmentionable stains off the furniture, they’re either lying, in urgent need of professional
help – or welcome to come and indulge their fetish at my house.

Household
chores are where things really get serious, and seriously unpleasant, for those
of us born under the sign of the slattern. While there is pleasure to be gained
from some of the subjects we’ve talked about so far in this Guide – like clothes
and food – housework holds no potential for fun, role play or hedonistic
indulgence. It just has to be done, the faster the better, if you don’t want to
be buried under a mountain of your own detritus or savaged by those weird dust
bunnies that magically reproduce under the bed.

Like most
of you reading this (it IS, after all, a Slattern’s Guide) I’m no natural-born
housewife, hausfrau, femme au foyer, νοικοκυρά, ama de casa, whatever you like to call it – not in
anyone’s language. I can talk the hind leg off a donkey, I can be a great
friend, I’m good at my job, I can make you laugh, sometimes make you cry and
when all else fails I can whip up a storm in the kitchen. Just don’t expect Martha
Stewart perfection when it comes to cleaning up afterwards.

Ironic
then, that the man I feel in love with all those years ago, and with whom I
have made a life (and a boy child along the way) is Greek. A real Greek Greek.
In Greece. With a classic stay-at-home Greek mama.

Ah, and did
I mention he’s also the first-born and the only son?

When we
moved in together, I attempted to distract any sidewards glances of disapproval
of our the unwed cohabitation by being the perfect hostess – ALL THE BLOODY
TIME.

We moved
into our flat in November and during the first month we received 56 visits from
friends, family and assorted well-wishers bringing us sweets and good wishes
for our new home. They usually arrived unannounced, sometimes less half an hour
after I’d arrived home from work.

So, I had
to make sure the place was perfect – ALL THE BLOODY TIME.

The alternative
was a mad last-minute dash round the place with the hoover, with a duster stuck
between my buttocks, as I bustled round grabbing stray items and stuffing them
in cupboards, then rearranging furniture to keep the doors closed against the
heaving mass hiding within before combing my wayward hair and slapping some
lippy and a grin on my face to greet our guests.

By Christmas, I was an exhausted,
quivering mass of knackerdom hiding under the pile of untamed gift wrappings
shoved out of sight behind the extravagantly decorated tree.

That
January, I made the only New Year’s Resolution I have ever kept – to stop
trying to meet the impossibly high standards of the Greek mother and housewife,
and just do my best.

Immediately,
the pressure was off. I let myself slob out on the sofa reading, despite the
pile of ironing lurking in the corner. I hid all tablecloths and started
using raffia mats instead. I banished all doilies and crocheted covers for… well, pretty much everything (armchair headrests,
coffee tables, sideboards, even TVs and fridges) even though it ran the risk of
offending well-meaning family members who generously donated them in the hope
of making me a fit woman for one of their men. Dust-magnets… sorry, assorted ornaments and trinkets…. were gathered up, wrapped lovingly in
newspaper, then shoved into a box hidden in the spare room.

In short, I
simplified things.

Of course,
I knew I had to keep the house decent, but I was buggered if I was going to it
solo. Poor Nikos probably didn’t know what hit him, but fair’s fair, right?

Fast
forward a couple of decades and – perhaps surprisingly – we’re still together. The
house is mostly clean, though not usually entirely tidy. We try to pass it of as having 'character', with a dash of creative flair (a great euphemism for lack of
domestic order). We devote one day a week to beating back the chaos when we wave a duster at the furniture, chuck bleach at strategic
surfaces in the kitchen and bathroom, and terrify the cat by dragging the vacuum
cleaner (a.k.a. The Screaming Box of Demons) from its lair to roar through the
rooms in an orgy of dust sucking.

But the
place is always lightly littered with books, scraps of papers, ashtrays,
cameras, flash drives, guitars cushioned in chairs designed for human rumps,
random notebooks and biros (never together) and feral teacups. I think there’s
a mythical beast of some kind living at the back of our Tuppercare cupboard,
which pushes the entire contents onto the floor whenever some foolish mortal dares
open the doors. There are no fresh-cut blooms on my sideboard, not a stitch of
crocheted handiwork or gleaming silver-plated candlesticks. There just an old baglama (a traditional Greek stringed
instrument – think of a mini-bouzouki hewn from a single piece of mulberry wood), some headphones, a forgotten shopping
list, an anonymous but hardy plant in a blue pot that’s survived our neglect,
and a large hourglass filled with purple sand.

We don’t live
in squalor. We can find things when we need them (most of the time). Visitors
don’t risk any interesting illnesses previously unknown to medical science, and
our son has survived to almost-manhood in one piece (we’ll talk about the Slattern’s Guide to Childrearing another time).
Even my mother-in-law has stopped checking the windowsills and table tops for
grime.

There’s
really only way that a slattern can survive the obstacle course of domesticity without
losing her sanity. And that is…
relax.

And always
keep one room, with a lockable door, available as a dumping ground for debris when unexpected guests come a-calling. Just make sure you’ve
had a glass or two of your favourite tipple before you turn the key and enter.